Rose Dust & Silent Snow

The city exhales a damp warmth. Like memory, clinging to the wool of this oversized sweater.
It’s a color that shouldn't suit me – too bright for the grey sidewalks, too hopeful for the drizzle. He doesn't notice, of course. He sees only the snow swirling around my ankles, a silent curtain between us.
The rose petals, scattered like lost promises, are catching the afternoon light. Each one holds a ghost of his smile, or perhaps just the expectation of it.
There’s a scent here, faint and familiar – coffee and something else… sandalwood? It settles on my skin, a quiet insistence.
I let the red scarf pool around my shoulders, its roughness a comforting contrast to the softness of the wool. The sun is losing itself behind the buildings, painting everything in shades of apricot and ash.
Not longing, not exactly. Just… recognition. The warmth isn't from him, necessarily. It’s the echo of a shared afternoon, a single, perfect moment suspended in time.
A small price to pay for letting go.

Editor: Summer Cicada